


The Last to Know

by Delphi



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: First Kiss, Humor, M/M, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-07-25
Updated: 2004-07-25
Packaged: 2017-10-04 11:52:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/Delphi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Severus is a little slow on the uptake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last to Know

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Swiftpaws](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Swiftpaws).



**1981:**

Albus fell in love in the blink of an eye, after a year of slow descent.

It was a summer evening, and the after-hour of an Order meeting had by chance found them alone together. The sunset was sneaking in through the gaps in the curtains, casting the table in bloody red shadows, and the sound of their breathing brushed up one against the other.

He was staring at Severus's hands—white-knuckled, laced as though in prayer and pressed to a grim and silent mouth—and not for the first time had the urge to unfold them. That part was nothing new. They were handsome hands, and he often wished to soothe the hurts they caused themselves.

But this time there was something else. Something sudden. Barely an instant, when Severus looked up and their eyes met, and a wordless understanding passed between them. Such fathomless eyes.

Albus nearly trembled at the unexpected hunger that seized him.

It was painful and sweet, the way his lust always was on the rare occasions when it was roused. And oddly tender, as he carefully imagined closing the distance between them and enfolding this young man in the fondest of embraces. Comforting him. Laying him down gently on this very table and showering him with the flurry of kisses that had been locked inside for years.

Yet he acknowledged his folly even before he caught his breath. Wistful thoughts, a moment's passing fancy. They were at war; he had no right to take a lover, never mind one so young, so troubled.

His eyes followed the curve of those lips regretfully.

"Headmaster?"

Albus came back to himself, shaking his head and forcing a smile. "Forgive me, Severus. My thoughts were elsewhere."

Another time, perhaps. Or another world.

Before he made to gather his things, however—before he could bring himself to stand—he indulged in one more moment of wondering what could have been. Then he tucked his fevered imaginings away for another day, another lonely night.

His little secret.

**1986:**

Minerva was watching them again. It was an idle habit, one she'd cultivated through too many overlong staff meetings. Sinistra had the floor today—going on for the thousandth time about yet another bit of costly equipment that she absolutely could not teach without—while the headmaster gamely feigned interest. Albus was nodding politely, interjecting the occasional "I see," but Minerva's trained eye caught the way his gaze flickered from time to time.

She followed its direction and hid a smile beneath the edge of her teacup.

Severus Snape slouched sourly in his seat, arms folded across his chest, making no effort to hide his disinterest. He was running the feathered end of a quill across his lips.

In the early morning light, she could nearly see the attraction. There was a certain elegance there, a sharpness that might not be to her taste, but which made an impression nonetheless. He put her in mind of a stray tomcat: too thin by half and, even when seemingly at rest, ready to fight or flee at a moment's notice.

And he was young, and he was passionate, and he proved himself to be a decent man just often enough to keep her from throttling him.

Which was why she wished she could kick him now, for staring stubbornly ahead while thirsty eyes stole sips from his profile. For waiting until Albus had looked away to sneak his own guilty glance.

She looked heavenwards for strength.

Men.

**1993:**

Hermione couldn't put her finger on exactly when she'd noticed, which bothered her because she liked knowing why she knew the things she knew. All she could really decide was that from the first time she met Professor Dumbledore, with his peacock clothing and dotty jokes, he'd put her in mind of her Uncle Edward, who'd never married and who had lived with his flatmate, John, for as long as she could remember.

She had seen them once—Professor Snape and the headmaster, not Uncle Edward and John—together in the corridor, heading to the Great Hall for dinner. This was in first year, and she had hung back, not wishing to be noticed. They had been caught up in a discussion. She hadn't been able to make out what they were saying, but it was low and serious, their heads bent close together. They'd looked like a pair of birds, an eagle and a crow perhaps, sharing a perch.

Then Professor Snape had said, quite sharply, "No."

And Professor Dumbledore had touched him.

It had only been an arm around his shoulder, and just for a moment. But to her surprise, Professor Snape had nearly stumbled, and for a split second his face showed something that was neither a smirk nor a scowl. Something hurt, like being too hungry to bear it.

She'd noticed other things from then on, as she got older. Little things that added up. Something in the way that Professor Dumbledore was always trying to make Professor Snape smile, even if he never did. Or the expression on Professor Snape's face last week in the infirmary, when the headmaster had all but called him a liar in front of the Minister.

She wasn't entirely certain if it was sad, or sweet, or sick—because while Professor Snape was old, he wasn't that old.

In the end, though, it made a sort of sense, and she was willing to let it lie at that. Good sense was more fulfilling than gut feeling any day.

**1995:**

Ron had never really thought about the matter, but now that it had come up, it really was a puzzler.

"I don't know," he finally had to admit. "I guess they go home."

They were in the common room, he and Hermione and Neville, while Harry was off stuck with Snape.

Neville frowned. "So you think they keep houses they only live in during summer? Seems like a bit of a waste."

Hermione looked up from her book. "Filch stays over at the castle, I know that. And Hagrid too, of course."

That got Ron thinking about Hagrid and Madame Maxime. It had never occurred to him before, but with all the time the teachers were at Hogwarts, it probably meant none of them were married. There were a few who left for Christmas and Easter, but he couldn't imagine having a wife and only seeing her on holidays. Then again, he supposed, not all of them would have to be single. Some of them were old enough to be widowed.

"Hey, you think Dumbledore's ever been married?"

The headmaster was the only important person he'd ever met who didn't have a wife and children. It was an old name, but he didn't know any other Dumbledores. Of course, most families weren't as big as they'd once been.

Neville only shrugged, but Hermione was _looking_ at him now, like this was something he was supposed to have read in _Hogwarts, A History._ The hint of a smile played about her lips, and it would have been quite pretty if it weren't so smug. She knew something he didn't.

"What?" he asked wearily.

She seemed to consider things a moment, then leaned in and whispered in his ear.

He felt his eyes widen, and he was embarrassed to hear his voice crack when he blurted out: "Oh no, he is _not_."

Hermione only grinned.

**1997:**

Harry was still waiting outside the headmaster's bedroom when Madam Pomfrey came out. He jumped to his feet immediately, scanning her face for some hint of what had gone on inside. The flu. Of all things, it was the flu that had Dumbledore out of commission when they needed him the most. Sickness, and being old and tired and overworked.

Madam Pomfrey spared him a kind smile. "He'll be fine—though it's a good thing you came and got me when you did. The old goat has been running himself ragged."

Harry sagged against the wall in relief, his mind still dwelling morbidly on that moment in which Dumbledore had crumpled over in his office. The muffled thump of a head hitting the carpet. Snape practically hurling him down the stairs towards the infirmary. Closed bedroom doors. Muffled voices inside.

He was about to make his way back to the dormitory when he realised that Snape was still inside. It had been two hours, Madam Pomfrey was gone, and Snape was still in there. A prickle of unease crept down his spine.

The thought came unbidden: The flu. How hard would it be for a Potions master to brew something that manifested like the flu? Some mild poison that picked away at an old man's strength until there was nothing left. No one would even suspect...

His arm throbbed where Snape had grabbed him.

He took a breath. All right, maybe he was being silly. Maybe he was wrong again.

But he knew his heart wouldn't stop pounding until he found out for sure. Tentatively, he reached for the latch and eased the door open just enough to peek inside.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. Only the bedside lamp was lit, and Snape's black robes were nearly lost in the shadows. His pale face was clear though, ghostly in the gloom. He was standing beside Dumbledore's bed and looking down with such silent intensity that when he finally did move, Harry found his hand instinctively covering his wand.

But Snape only muttered something soft and bent down. To whisper, Harry thought, then blinked when Snape instead pressed a kiss to the headmaster's forehead before collapsing heavily into the bedside chair.

Stunned, Harry quietly closed the door. His hand eased off his wand. He shut his eyes.

Bugger.

He really hated it when Snape made it harder to hate him.

**1998:**

Severus came awake slowly, staring up at the familiar infirmary ceiling.

He hurt too much to be dead.

He blinked, a small agony. His mind was like fog, but as he squinted up into the light, the events of the day began to trickle through. Potter, Longbottom, the Dark Lord.

Never mind that he wouldn't be here if he were misremembering, he scrambled to pull up his sleeve, needing to see for himself that the mark was still gone. A sudden clamour broke out across the room, but Severus didn't dare tear his eyes away from the unsullied skin until he heard his name called.

"He's awake!"

He looked up to see Albus striding towards him at great speed, Minerva, Potter and company hustling to keep up.

He tried to speak, but only a croak emerged. And at any rate, he found himself abruptly muffled when Albus swooped down upon him. Warmth. It took a moment to fully understand the source: not tears but kisses, scattered generously across his face.

"Oh, my darling fellow," Albus murmured in his ear. "We thought we'd lost you."

Severus felt the longest kiss yet pressed to his mouth and held there. Too gobsmacked to even respond, he could do no more than give himself up to it and wonder whether he had died after all and had against all reason been granted some heavenly indulgence. Albus's mouth tasted too strongly of brandy to be divine, however.

Sweet whispers feathered his ears: "I've been such a fool...shouldn't have waited so long...Severus..."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Minerva and Potter's lot sidle back out the door into the corridor. With annoyance, he noted that none of them had the decency to look shocked, or even surprised; Miss Granger was _beaming_. He suffered the next melting kiss with a silent sigh of martyrdom when he caught Minerva's smirk, and he wrapped his arms tightly around Albus's back.

He was apparently the last to know anything around here.


End file.
